It's hard to remember to live your life before you die.

My father was a military child, my grandfather was in the air force, so his family lived all over the globe, and- along with all their locations came a myriad of stories that I was able to hear growing up in my home. My favorite stories come from the period of time in which my father’s family lived on the island of Guam. I emailed my father upon reading ether chps 1-5 asking him to share a story that I remembered him telling so that I could open up what I want to talk to you today about. I received the following email from him and with his permission I will relay it to you:

The first scoutmaster I ever had was a Navy seal, we were a bunch of white military kids on the island of Guam- we were the only white kids- and we were bored out of our minds. The Navy seal decided on his first lesson that we were going to “borrow” navy equipment, and sail to some of the remote islands surrounding Guam and- like most scouts do their first year- he taught us to blow up islands. The church immediately released him from his calling and the Navy did soon after. Our Bishop played it safe and called a Guamanian as our next scoutmaster. He was a farmer and he didn’t talk much, and in comparison to blowing up islands- we complained about how we never did anything. He looked at us and told us to come to his house the following Saturday.

We showed up and he threw us into the back of his old pickup and we drove in and out of jungles for a long time and came to a secluded beach with a cliff nearby. We walked for about an hour into the jungle with him in front and reached what appeared to be the face of the cliff. He removed the vines and branches to show a hidden cave entrance.
We went into the cave, it was large and dark so he lit a few candles and sat us down to tell us why we were there. He said that while the Japanese occupied Guam during WWII this was where his family had hidden. He took us to the far corner of the cave where there was a small dark pool of water with a rope that was anchored to a rock and disappeared beneath the surface. He explained that under the water was a small tunnel, that lead back into the cliff to another cave and that if you held your breath and pulled on the rope for maybe 45-60 seconds- you would arrive into a secret cave. He continued by saying that the cave was filled with crystals and a clay and that whoever had ever made it into to the cave had stamped his or her hand into the clay and would press it onto the crystals. He had his small nine-year old son with him and the son disappeared into the pool and the rope began to shake. The man turned and pointed at me and said, now you go. I stood in the water, holding the rope and hyper-ventilating but in the end I did not go. None of us did, and he just pulled on the rope and his son came back and we all went home.

That was 33 years ago and still to this day, when my mind goes on neutral and I have nothing to think about- it automatically rewinds to that day, and I am holding the rope, and holding my breath and going to that incredible cave where few people in the world have ever been. I see how long I can hold my breath to see if I would have made it. No matter how much I think about it, I will never get another chance to see that cave.

We are told that this earth life is but a moment in time for God- maybe even as short as 45-60 seconds. We are told if we hold on to faith or religion, the iron rod or a wet rope and just pull- we can some day live with God in a celestial world.

I do not think there is a Hell with hot rocks and country music playing all the time- instead I think hell will be knowing that you had a chance to live with God- to become like him and instead- stood in a pool of dark water with a rope in your hands and gave up. The scriptures describe people in hell as “weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth” (all of which is understandable if my theory on country music is right). That emotional turmoil is because they blew it- they let life’s problems and trials defeat them and lost faith in themselves.
Love, Dad (an old man telling stories of when he was young)